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3am-thoughts-of-achilles · 1 year ago

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Wishcasting Threads of Fate

—a patrochilles modern au (rated M)—

Briseis drags Patroclus to a college party on New Year’s Eve against all of his protests and pleas. Tired med student Patroclus, who, just a couple of days ago had been studying intensely for his finals. Tired Patroclus who feels a burnout and exhaustion so bone-weary, that he’d rather be in bed sleeping it off. He had intended to do just that, when his overbearing best friend—he loves her to death, he’s just a tad grumpy right now—had yanked the covers off of him and pushed him out of the warm comfort of his bed.

“We’re going out tonight,” she’d said, grinning mischievously as she leaned over him from his new perch on the floor.

And the rest is history.

Patroclus is tired. The music is loud in whoever��s extravagant living room they’re in right now, and that, coupled with the jostling bodies and chatter of other students in attendance, makes him scowl.

Ultimately, he wishes he was in bed right this moment. Hurray for the festivities and all, but he’d rather usher in the new year unaware, fast asleep in his dorm room, and the fact that Briseis has taken that away from him makes him…exhausted, he decides.

Tired Patroclus accepts the red plastic cup she places in his hand with a grunt, and mechanically tips the unidentified contents of it into his mouth. He winces at the pungent but familiar weight of alcohol travelling down his throat as he swallows.

Briseis pats his arm in consolation, then cackles with glee as she spots a group of her classmates who wave her over excitedly. Patroclus grabs her at once. Makes desperate, pleading eyes at her, and grits out, “Do not leave me here, I’m begging you—”

“I’ll be back in a minute, babe!” she expertly weaves out of his hold and heads over to her other friends, disappearing into the sea of tightly packed bodies.

It has been thirty-two minutes since then.

Sighing, Patroclus takes a second swig of his drink and winces again. He’s just about to go looking for a sink to dump his cup into, when something catches his eye. It flashes by the corner of his vision so quickly, that for a moment he thinks: fire?

It isn’t fire, his brain amends soon after as he glances over at the direction the blur of movement came from. It’s someone’s hair; light, flowing, wavy, and vibrant blonde.

There, out on the patio just across from him, are a small group of students lounging in a half circle around a rectangular table, drinks in hand, laughter loud and boisterous.

“Dance for us, Pyrrha!” someone urges, amused and goading.

Patroclus drags his eyes finally to the only person sitting perched atop the table. He sees pretty blonde hair, a lean frame, sunflower-patterned bell-bottoms and a flowy white long-sleeved crop top that shows off a toned stomach, and his brain short-circuits.

The girl, he thinks—Pyrrha—gets up on the table with a snort, rueful smile toying across slender pink lips, and says something to her friends that Patroclus doesn’t quite catch. Whatever it was though, sends the group of people surrounding her into another bout of laughter.

Someone starts to drum a beat onto the corner of the table, and amidst a building hum of cheers, as if she was made for it, Pyrrha starts to move.

Patroclus…well he’s never been more enthralled by anything in his entire life. He watches her dance, eyes glued to the way her practised feet carry her, moving with ease. Her hips sway and sashay, her arms beckon the crowd as she dips back to show off the graceful stretch of her neck—

Patroclus’ mouth goes bone dry.

As she straightens up and continues to dance, she turns around and locks eyes with him despite the small crowd. Despite the loud cheers. Despite everything.

It isn’t until he feels a growing patch of wetness on his shirt that Patroclus realises he’d been squeezing his red solo cup for dear life. He looks down at himself, dismayed at the mess on his clothes and shoes. When he glances up at the dancer once more, he’s disappointed to find that she’d turned back to her friends and he’s left to stare at her back.

The impromptu performance ends not long after that, and Patroclus had stood there, watching every moment. The soft pat of her feet hitting the wooden patio is the cue that snaps him out of the trance-like state he’d been in, and Patroclus hastily drags his gaze away. He looks down at his hand and clothes once more, mild distaste prickling under his skin now at the sticky-cold feeling of drying beer on his skin.

He prompts himself to move finally, but not before sneaking one last look at the blonde-haired muse who’d caught him in her thrall.

As if drawn by some invisible thread, Pyrrha turns around once more, caught in between a full-body laugh from something a friend had said. Again, her eyes drift over the crowd to find Patroclus and meet his gaze. Again, Patroclus’ body freezes up, a feeling like liquid lightning racing down his spine and warming his stomach. He stumbles into a random partygoer in his daze, and the spell is broken. Mumbling a quick apology, he hurries further into the house, in search of somewhere to wash his hands. He pushes past inebriated bodies, weaves past people playing beer pong in the center of the living room, thinks he spots Briseis’ familiar mass of curls weaving through the crowd somewhere, but she’s gone before he can even think to call out to her.

Another sigh escapes him. This house is a maze; it’s eclectic and large, just a couple of minutes off-campus, and he can’t find a damn bathroom anywhere.

Pausing at the foot of a winding set of marble stairs, Patroclus wonders if he really wants to go traipsing around somebody’s fancy mansion with his soiled hands like this. But there are probably a lot more unsanitary things going on around him right now, and the owner of the house had most likely agreed to host this party.

Something prompts Patroclus to look up before he can further debate the semantics of his inherent uneasiness in luxurious settings. Perhaps that same thread of fate he’s been wish-casting about, or some invisible hand guiding him—but whatever the case, he looks up.

Sees that same familiar face framed by waves of pretty blonde hair, smiling down at him.

Pyrrha.

Leaning against the elegant banister, olive green eyes twinkling with amusement, she beckons him with a single flick of her index finger. And like a man enchanted—he really is—Patroclus stumbles up the flight of stairs without another thought.

He isn’t quite sure how he makes it to the top on account of his clumsy feet, but he doesn’t stop to think about that either. The moment he touches down on that final step, he finds himself face to face with who he’s now certain is the love of his life. They haven’t spoken a single word, have barely shared three glances, but sue him—Patroclus has never once pegged himself as a hopeless romantic, much less a believer of the ‘love at first sight phenomenon, but here he is now, so fucking sue him.

He’s standing in front of this person, tongue-tied, heart in his throat, drying disgusting beer on his damn hands, and he’s never been more sure of anything in his entire life.

“You looked like you enjoyed watching me dance, earlier.” Pyrrha’s voice dips slightly into the lower register, sensual, inviting. Hair-raisingly good.

A couple of fuses go off in Patroclus’ brain. “Hello—um, I mean, yes. It was uh…a nice routine. Very nice, I thought.” He thinks he should stop talking. “Ah, I’m sorry—I’m looking for a bathroom, I need to uh…wash my hands…” he trails off helplessly. That was an even worse second try, but as he stares at Pyrrha, he catches a smile playing on her lips, and he’s glad he’s at least managed to amuse her.

“I figured you would, after all, you squeezed the life out of your cup while watching my ‘very nice’ performance.”

“Oh, I—”

A flame sparks to life inside Patroclus the moment Pyrrha takes his hand and begins to lead him down the elegant hallway.

“Y-you really shouldn't…” this is his dirty hand, he wants to say, but the words fall short when she runs her thumb against the back of said hand and leads him into a large bedroom.

Kicking the door shut with her foot, Pyrrha turns the lock with her free hand and lets out a hum in the muted silence. From here, Patroclus can barely hear the party downstairs, though he can barely hear anything above the roar of blood in his ears.

He goes willingly when Pyrrha tugs on him.

“Come on,” she says, showing him into an ornate, adjoining bathroom. “Let’s wash our hands, hm?”

Finally, he gets to run his hands under the quiet gurgle of a tap. The water is warm, and it’s all he can do to focus on the mechanical lather and rinse cycle while acutely aware of the presence leaning against the door behind him. The hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention as he feels her come up behind him when he’s done, and offer her own hands expectantly.

Patroclus looks down and swallows dryly for what may be the umpteenth time that night. “You…do you want me to wash your hands for you?”

She inclines her head in interest. “Would you?”

“Of– of course.”

And suddenly even the mechanical lather and rinse routine is more pronounced, more portentous than it's ever been for him. Patroclus tries not to let his hands tremble as he takes hers and guides them under the tap. He can’t help himself when his eyes fix fast to the way her hands rest in his; sure and delicate, slender fingers easing off into perfect, manicured nails.

Needless to say, Patroclus spends time on each one, so dedicated and devoted to his task, that he almost misses the question she poses to him:

“What’s your name?”

The engines in his brain sputter pathetically. “P–Patroclus,” he breathes.

“Patroclus.” The word rolls off her tongue smooth and velvety, and for a moment, it feels familiar, as if his name has always been home on the tip of her tongue.

He doesn’t reply—can’t reply—because everything in his head has gone quiet all of a sudden.

Here he is studying to be a doctor, but watching Pyrrha earlier had felt like he'd crossed paths with his muse; made him feel like he could paint hundreds of paintings and compose a hundred more epics for the effulgent being standing before him

“I’m Achilles,” the dancer tells him, and it takes a long moment for Patroclus to register it.

He’s staring down at the elegant fingers splayed on top of his like they’re the most interesting thing he’s ever seen—and in a way, they are—as a slow creeping warmth climbs up his neck.

“…Oh,” he murmurs finally, a small furrow of confusion denting his brows. “I heard your friends call you Pyrrha…so I thought—”

“Mhm, that's more of a…nickname? A stage name?” A soft laugh. “Ah, it's a long story.”

“I see,” Patroclus says. And then, a dawning realisation:

Achilles.

“Oh— I thought you were a woman,” he confesses, face burning now. “…I'm sorry.”

He looks up into the mirror ahead of them and meets a rakish grin staring back at him.

“Don’t be sorry,” Achilles tells him. “I take it as a compliment.”

Oh.

Patroclus’ mind, eerily quiet a moment ago, turns cacophonous with a storm of questions raging through him:

How come this knowledge doesn't deter the pulsing attraction he feels towards Pyrrha—no Achilles? Why does it feel more charged and electric to brush shoulders with him as the both of them dry off their hands? What does it say about Patroclus who's only ever dated women to be so ready to discard everything he thought he knew about himself in the face of someone he met half an hour ago?

Whatever realisation he's on the verge of unearthing feels like it should be more momentous, more tumultuous, perhaps, but Patroclus doesn't sway. His feet are as planted on the ground as ever.

“I saw the way you looked at me back then,” Achilles tells him. It's simple, said neutrally, neither chastising nor encouraging.

Regardless, a wave of something akin to mortification surges through Patroclus. “I— I’m sorry,” he mumbles, suddenly aware that they're face to face and Achilles has him backed against the door.

Again, the other says, “Don't be.” He takes a measured step closer to him and smiles a little. “Patroclus,” he hums, urging Patroclus to look at him.

Patroclus makes a small sound of acknowledgement in his throat, unable for anything else. His gaze had been wandering all across the gilded bathroom, determined not to meet Achilles’ amused, almost cajoling expression, but now Patroclus is inevitably drawn back to those dark green eyes. He thinks they look a little darker now, hooded. His mouth goes dry again.

“It’s almost midnight,” Achilles drawls playfully. “There’s only the two of us here and I’m hoping for a kiss. Have things changed now that I’m…sort of a guy, or are you still into me?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been into anyone more in my entire life,” Patroclus replies honestly, a tad bit desperate. The truth of the admission stuns him a little. Patroclus who’s been straight all his life, is learning a thing or two about himself in this light, and the only takeaway he has is that he is so into Achilles.

“Yeah?” Achilles is grinning now, delighted. “Are you gonna kiss me?”

The idea makes Patroclus tremble with anticipation. “Please,” he breathes.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Achilles teases.

“Ah, I just—”

Achilles steps up to him, toe to toe, and presses his lips to Patroclus’.

It’s soft and simple, innocent, makes him feel like a kid stealing a first kiss from his crush, but then, Achilles takes Patroclus’ bottom lip between his teeth for just a moment before letting go, and all of Patroclus’ thoughts swerve into static noise.

“See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Achilles asks, the words murmured against Patroclus’ lips because they’re still standing so so close to each other.

Eyes raking along the entirety of Achilles’ body, Patroclus swallows thickly and begs, “Again. I— kiss me once more.”

A low, distracted hum is all he receives in response before their lips meet a second time. It feels like a slow greeting at first, like Achilles is coaxing him, welcoming him into the act, but Patroclus is much too eager.

Already, it feels like a wildfire spreading across his veins. He gasps into the kiss, mind racing, and welcomes the liquifying warmth of pleasure that stamps through him at the mere feeling of their tongues rubbing against each other.

Achilles lets out a soft sound like he’s pleased, and takes both of Patroclus’ hands—previously trembling uselessly at his sides—and encourages them to grab onto his waist.

The mere contact of his hands on Achilles’ bare skin, drives him a little crazy as Patroclus instantly presses the pads of his fingers into his body, tugs Achilles impossibly close until there’s really no space between them, and earns himself another satisfied moan.

He’s only heard them twice, but Patroclus thinks that if he could, he’d drink in all of the blonde man’s pleased little noises for the rest of his life. It’s a sound he could live off.

Patroclus doesn’t know what comes over him, but soon he’s licking into Achilles’ mouth insistently, holding him in place, desperate to get the spiced wine taste of him on his own tongue too. At some point, Achilles had taken to latching onto Patroclus’ arm like a lifeline now, nails digging into his flesh, sparking to life some part of him that’s apparently into a little pleasure-pain.

Groaning, Patroclus hefts the other up, and Achilles laughs in surprise against his lips before quickly catching on and wrapping his legs around Patroclus’ waist. The pure, unfettered sound of delight rushes through Patroclus like heroin; this sound is one he could get high off.

Greedy, he hesitantly drags his mouth away from Achilles’, set now in a recently discovered desire to see just how many noises he can tug out of his pretty lips.

He earns a sharp gasp, surprise blended with pleasure, when his mouth first closes around Achilles’ slender neck. He loves the way Achilles arches and bucks into him at that moment, however, before he can keep going, two shaky hands cup his face and urges him to meet a gaze heavy-lidded and darkened with want.

Still, there’s a smile playing on Achilles’ face as he pants and breathes out: “We’ve missed most of the countdown.”

For a moment, Patroclus’s addled mind doesn’t understand what the other means, but then he hears it for himself. The now audible boom of the party’s collective voices downstairs.

“…Three…two…ONE!”

Despite how loud the crowd is now, they’re no match for the resounding roar of thunder that echoes in Patroclus’ mind when Achilles yanks him in for another breathtaking kiss.

Sparks explode behind his closed eyes, and his stomach warms with that strange sense of familiarity again.

They pull apart shortly, matching grins on their faces.

“Happy New Year, Patroclus.”

“…Happy New Year, Achilles.”

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